


The Wolf

by Laur



Series: The Wolf [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bottom Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Not a heat, Pair Bonding, Rimming, Rough Sex, Some bad guys die violently, Top John, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: “Rise ‘n shine, Mr. Holmes.”Heavy manacles encircle his ankles and wrists, thick chains bolted into the floor. Steel? Silver-coated.Damn. He grimaces and feels dried blood crack along the side of his face. Thick bars surround him on all sides, caging him in like an animal.“You’re making a really, very bad mistake,” he mutters, blinking hard to clear his vision.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the request of my friend [sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on](http://sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on.tumblr.com/), whose enthusiasm and positivity never fail to make me smile.

The sound of footsteps and the scent of cigarette smoke slowly drag Sherlock into consciousness. Keeping his breathing steady and eyes closed, he takes stock of himself, his throbbing head, the feeling of cold metal pressing against his wrists and ankles. He’s lying on his back on a cement floor, the air is damp, a slight breeze from an open window. Each beat of his heart stabs knives behind his eyes.

The footsteps come to a stop, four feet away, five o’clock. He opens his eyes.

“Rise ‘n shine, Mr. Holmes.”

Heavy manacles encircle his ankles and wrists, thick chains bolted into the floor. Steel? Silver-coated. _Damn_. He grimaces and feels dried blood crack along the side of his face. Thick bars surround him on all sides, caging him in like an animal.

“You’re making a really, very bad mistake,” he mutters, blinking hard to clear his vision.

“I don’t think we are,” says a new voice, and Sherlock slowly sits up to get a better view of the bunker they’re in. Four men – a gambler, a construction worker, a – _stop, it doesn’t matter_ – all heavily armed, all wearing black ski masks, watch him from outside his cage. In a corner of the room, tied to a chair with simple rope and still unconscious, is John. His knuckles are raw and a gash on his forehead paints half his face red, his bowed head guiding the blood to drip off the end of his nose. Sherlock’s gut clenches.

With a glance out the barred window high up on one of the bunker’s walls, Sherlock sees the full moon nearly at its zenith. “You fools,” he spits. In the corner of the room, John stirs.

“You and Dr. Watson make this trip out to the country every month, without fail,” one man accuses, throwing his cigarette to the floor and grinding it into the cement with a heavy boot. “Not always the same location, but always the country. Even during a case, you two don’t remain in London during a full moon.”

Tension snaps through John’s muscles. Their captors don’t notice.

Their knowledge of his and John’s habits is alarming. They’ve evidently been under surveillance for months now, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft caught it. Frustrating. “John’s an avid lunar photographer,” Sherlock drawls, getting to his feet, keeping their attention on him.

The man in front of the cage snorts in disgust and begins pacing again. Sherlock watches out of the corner of his eye as the man’s route brings him closer to John, who is beginning to clench and unclench his hands.

“My family has hunted werewolves for six generations,” the smoker growls lowly. He steps up to the bars and Sherlock turns to face him, the chains keeping him rooted in place. “You’re solitary, hypersensitive to smells and sounds. You notice things, because your vision is superhuman.” Sherlock meets the hunter’s hatred with a blank expression. “I know a lycanthrope when I see one.”

Turning his head, Sherlock checks the progress of the moon. It won’t be long now. “If you’re so sure that I’m a werewolf, why bother kidnapping me on our way to our safe-house? Why not kill me immediately?”

The hunter widens his eyes in mock surprise. “Kill you? I don’t want to kill you.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows.

The hunter lowers his gaze as he pulls his handgun out of its holster. “A dead werewolf is valuable, sure, but do you know how much a live one is worth?” He taps the barrel of the gun and glances up to smirk at Sherlock. “Silver treated bullets.”

John is fully awake now, his breathing rapid, his entire frame tense to snapping. When he lifts his head to seek out Sherlock, his lips are pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wild. Sherlock glances away quickly.

“I’d assumed as much,” he says, employing his most bored tone.

“He don’t seem very agitated,” remarks one of the men, the one who can’t stop from checking his weapons every ten seconds.

The hunter glances at him before turning back to scrutinize Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. He steps forward and reaches an arm between the bars. The chains limit how far Sherlock can move, so he can do nothing but turn his face away when rough, sweaty fingertips brush his cheek.

A low growl emanates from the corner of the room. Sherlock internally urges John to shut up.

“With a face like yours…” the hunter murmurs, voice throaty with greed. “Well, I’m looking forward to an early retirement.”

 “Run now, and you may yet survive,” Sherlock warns, and the hand pulls away.

The pacing man laughs, an abrasive, raucous sound. Sherlock’s icy gaze snaps to him and he falters. “You ain’t getting past those bars,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

John hunches over violently. It’s time.

“No,” Sherlock agrees, jerking forward against his restraints, clanking the chains to cover John’s groans. The men startle at his sudden movement. “I won’t.” John’s back suddenly arches, and when he throws his head back, his face is nearly unrecognizable. Jaw elongated, teeth extended, brow thickened. Sherlock thrashes against his restraints, violently clanking the chains to muffle the sounds of John’s bones creaking. _John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._ “But then again – ” the men grasp their firearms, aim them at Sherlock. Above them, the moon reaches its peak. “I’m not the one you need to contain.”

With an agonized scream, John explodes out of the chair, ropes snapping uselessly as his body contorts and swells with muscle and fur. With excruciating cracks and creaks, John’s legs and arms lengthen and transform, throwing him to the floor as he screams again between clenched teeth.

Eyes wide, mouths gaping and faces pale, the hunters whirl as John’s cry morphs into something guttural, something inhuman. Shaking hands raise unsteady weapons and Sherlock lurches towards the writhing creature on the ground, forgetting the bars between them, the chains holding him back. “John!”

A reverberating, harsh growl splits the air, followed immediately by a gunshot.

“ _No!”_

With an enraged, booming snarl, the werewolf whirls on the shooter, an immense mass moving nearly too quickly to see. A flash of teeth in the moonlight and a human shriek is violently cut short, neck snapping like a twig between lethally powerful jaws. The next several moments are chaos, a whirlwind of screams, gunshots and furious snarls. The men shoot wildly, panicked, and Sherlock drops to the floor. Animal screeches accompany the violent sounds of crunching bones. One man is thrown against a wall with enough force that he crumples like a ragdoll, instantly dead. Another aims a rifle and manages a shot that clips the werewolf’s shoulder before his chest is torn to shreds. The fourth man is already unmoving, face down on the ground.

“John!” Sherlock shouts, voice hoarse. “John, stop!” The werewolf pauses in its mauling of the dead man’s back. “You’ve done enough, they’re dead!”

The werewolf turns to face him, hackles raised, a threatening growl rumbling deep in its chest. Sherlock stands stock still, his wrists throbbing. Man and beast watch each other carefully. Even in stillness, the sight of the werewolf sends Sherlock’s heart thundering painfully, his chest tight with panic. Balancing on its two hind legs, the creature is too humanoid to be called a wolf, nearly seven feet tall and over twenty stone of heavy muscle and thick, sandy fur. Saliva and blood drip from the immense canines, rows of teeth glistening in the moonlight, snout wrinkled with a twitching snarl and eyes glowing red with uncomprehending fury.

“John, please,” Sherlock whispers, not trusting his voice.

Lowering itself onto all fours, the werewolf limps towards the cage, heavy huffs disturbing the air as it pants.

“You know me, you _know_ me.”  

The werewolf is incapable of understanding human speech, but Sherlock knows that it will recognize Sherlock’s voice, Sherlock’s scent, or at the very least John’s scent on him.

Low, rumbling growls shake the werewolf’s chest incessantly, but the sound no longer causes adrenaline to shoot through Sherlock’s system. The beast is unhappy, angry, and in pain, but no longer threatening. It presses its snout against the bars and Sherlock strains against the chains, grimacing as his wrists throb. Glancing down, he notices the blood dripping down his hands.

A loud clang causes Sherlock to jump, head snapping up as the werewolf throws itself against the bars a second time.

“John, stop!”

Claws extended, it swipes against the metal, then slams its massive form against the cage again.

“Stop, you idiot! It’s no use!”

The beast continues to throw itself against the bars, high whines ripping from its throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock lowers himself to the ground, waiting for the werewolf to tire itself out. Eventually, after what feels like an age, the banging slows, slows, then stops. There is a deep huffing sound, and Sherlock opens his eyes to watch the monstrous wolf settle on its belly.

The greys and blonds and browns of its fur are matted with blood, its own and the hunters’. Throat tight, Sherlock eyes the silver-treated bullet wounds, raw and bleeding, one on the werewolf’s right haunch, several most scoring its hide. The bodies of the hunters are sprawled on the floor, in various contortions of violence.

_Goddammit_ , Sherlock thinks. He’s going to owe Mycroft so many favours. At least the werewolf seems content with gnawing on the bars, and hasn’t decided to flee into the night.

After a while of sitting and watching the quietly growling werewolf that has replaced his partner, Sherlock lies on his back on the floor, eyes trained on the moon outside the window as he waits for the night to pass.

 

When the first streaks of pink bleed into the sky, Sherlock is woken by a metallic screeching as the cage door is thrown open. He jerks into a sitting position and is promptly knocked back down by John’s nude body crashing into him. There’s a jingle of keys hitting the ground, then rough hands tilt his head back as John straddles his hips, an insistent nose pressing against the skin under his jaw. Hot, panting breaths brush against his neck, causing gooseflesh to ripple down Sherlock’s arms.

“John,” Sherlock croaks. He clears his throat and tries to ignore the graze of blunt teeth against his carotid. He reaches for John’s shoulders, but John, with a human snarl, grabs his forearms and forces Sherlock’s hands back to his sides, manacles clanking on the ground.

Eyelids fluttering, Sherlock goes limp, allowing John to nuzzle and scent and reassure himself. John’s not aroused, but his muscles quiver with tension. His face and hands are painted with dried blood.

Eventually, John releases his hold, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head instead and pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone. He’s breathing heavily and is too pale for comfort.

“Get these things off me,” Sherlock demands, shaking the chains. “I need to treat your wounds. You’ve still got a damn silver bullet imbedded in your thigh.”

With jerky movements, John pulls back and retrieves the ring of keys from where he dropped them. “I killed them all,” he rasps, watching his own stained hands as they fit the key into the manacle lock.

Sherlock swallows. The scent of blood is heavy in the air. “What do you remember?”

“They thought _you_ were the werewolf. They wanted to sell you.” The first manacle falls away, revealing a bruised and sluggishly bleeding wrist. Red flashes through John’s eyes at the sight and Sherlock’s breath catches. “I remember him _touching_ you.”

The wolf is barely below the surface.

“It was self defense,” Sherlock tells him. “They wouldn’t stop shooting.”

John frees his other wrist. “They were terrified,” he argues, but it’s between clenched teeth.

“They were idiots,” Sherlock snaps. “And I could not care less that they’re dead.”

The moment his ankles are free, Sherlock scrambles to his feet, intent on finding a first aid kit, but is stopped by a clawed hand on his arm. He freezes, watches as, after a moment, the claws slowly retract and morph back into fingernails.

“John.”

The fingers clench.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to find a first aid kit.”

Slowly, stiffly, John hand unclenches. As Sherlock briefly searches the bunker, then rifles through the bodies’ pockets for car keys, the weight of John’s eyes on him raises the hairs on the back of his neck. John is always possessive just before and after a full moon, but the kidnapping and enforced separation seem to be making John almost desperately territorial.

He finds their mobiles in the pocket of his Belstaff, which is discarded in a pile in a corner. He retrieves his own mobile before draping the greatcoat over John, who leans against the bars of the cage, injured leg straight out in front of him. The scent of the coat seems to calm him slightly.

Sherlock moves to the door of the bunker and John makes a sound of protest, struggling to stand. “I’ll be right back,” he says again. He tilts his head and adds, as if commanding a dog: “Stay.”

An offended snort follows him out the door.

 

He makes the phone call to Mycroft as he unlocks the black SUV he finds outside.

There is silence over the line after Sherlock explains the situation.

“Dog fighting is a terribly cruel sport,” Mycroft says at last. “It’s not surprising for abused animals to turn on their owners.” Sherlock nearly sighs in relief, sagging a little against the open door of the car. His brother will fix this.

He finds a first aid kit under the passenger seat, along with a simple black t-shirt and jogging trousers, and a dozen water bottles. Suddenly absolutely parched, he downs an entire bottle before tucking four more under his arm. When he returns with the supplies, he finds John attempting to drag himself towards the door.

Sherlock drops everything. “Are you mentally deficient?” he bites out, dropping to his knees at John’s side and pushing him to lie on his back. He yanks off the Belstaff to check the damage. The various bullet gouges and scratches on John’s body are already healed thanks to his werewolf regenerative abilities, but the wound containing the silver bullet is enflamed and bleeding, blue veins spreading like a spider web from the centre. Sherlock leans away and John’s hand clamps down, vice-like on his forearm. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock grabs a water bottle and thrusts it in his direction. “Drink this.”

“Sorry,” John mutters, removing his hand to untwist the cap. As he guzzles down the water, Sherlock opens the first aid kit, finding disinfectant, gloves and bandages, but no forceps. No anesthetic either.

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, sucking in a breath. He quickly disinfects his hands while John opens a second water bottle, downing half and using the other half to wash away the worst of the blood on his face and hands. Sherlock pulls on the gloves and opens a new disinfectant wipe.

“I can –”

Sherlock glares him into silence. Wasting no time, Sherlock begins cleaning the site, ignoring John’s hiss of pain as he goes rigid. Flopping back onto the floor, John bites his own forearm as Sherlock douses the bullet wound with disinfectant. Once free of dirt and dried blood, the wound is about the size of a fifty pence coin, but the skin is badly swollen and irritated by the silver. Sherlock thinks the bullet is about half a centimeter under the surface, but to get at it with his fingers, he is going to have to spread the wound wider. At this point, he falters, his eyes stinging, John’s bitten off groans of agony shooting spikes into his chest.

“John,” he begins, haltingly. “I need to –”

“Just do it,” he grunts.

“Your fingers are thinner.”

Wordlessly, John holds a hand in the air between them. It shakes violently.

Closing his eyes against the sight, Sherlock takes several calming breaths. “Okay.”

 

By the time the silver bullet plinks quietly to the ground, they’re both shaking. Sherlock lowers his sweaty brow to John’s uninjured thigh until John’s breaths sound less like they’re shredding his lungs. When he lifts his head, the wound is nothing but a freshly scarlet scar, blood smeared on John’s thigh.

Sherlock pulls off the gloves and attempts to compose himself while John pulls on the over-sized t-shirt and trousers, then silently sits while John cleans and bandages his wrists.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock orders once they’re both mended.

“What about the bodies?”

“Mycroft is taking care of it.”

John nods stiffly. He looks at each body in turn, regret twisting his lips. Their faces are still covered by ski masks. “I should –”

“No. We’re leaving.”

John looks at him, eyes wide, searching.

“There is nothing you could have done differently, and knowing their faces will not change anything, other than make you feel worse. The moment they threatened us, their fate was sealed.” John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock plows on. “Had they caged you instead, I would have killed them without the excuse of being transformed into an enraged lycanthrope.”

When John nods reluctantly, Sherlock turns and leads the way outside.

 

Sherlock drives.

There is an unopened package of beef jerky and a bag of apples left by the hunters, but they do not touch them, despite not having eaten in over twelve hours. In the passenger seat, John sits utterly still, the illusion of calm betrayed by the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat, by the tightly clenched fists resting in his lap. Every time the GPS gives an instruction, John’s lips tighten, so Sherlock takes a moment to memorize the route before turning it off, leaving them in thick silence.

When they pull up next to their rental car twenty minutes later, exactly where they left it yesterday evening, John exits the SUV with efficient, deliberate movements. Sherlock practically throws himself from the vehicle and stalks in the opposite direction.

Stopped by the rental car, John calls after him, “Where are you going?”

“Obvious!”

Immediately, John jogs after him, nearly close enough to trip on his heels. “What is?”

Their safe-house is a small, shed-like cottage in the trees, containing not much more than a washroom and a large bed. Below the cottage is a basement cellar, where John routinely chains himself on full moons while Sherlock sits nearby. They’d been heading here yesterday when the hunters ambushed them. “You are,” Sherlock says as he unlocks the front door.

“Sorry? I am?”

Sherlock throws his coat over a chair and turns to face John, who closes the door behind them and watches Sherlock from the doorway. “You’ll never make the drive back to London in this state.”

John looks away. Licks his lips. Clenches and unclenches his left hand. “What state?”

Sherlock sighs loudly and slips off his shoes. “You were kidnapped and restrained on a night of the full moon.” He begins unbuttoning his shirt. “Not only that, but you were forced to watch your partner caged and shackled by other men, _touched_ by another man.” John’s jaw clenches and turns away, moving to the sink to wash the blood from under his fingernails. Sherlock presses on. “As if he owned me, as if I belonged to him. And then you were unable to reach me all night, unable to restate your claim. Their scents are still on me, aren’t they?” John bows his head over the sink. “The wolf tasted blood, but it’s not quite enough, not quite satisfying, to simply eliminate the threat.”

John dries his hands with a towel, then faces him. “I –” His throat works. His eyes are dark. “I am not _safe_ right now, Sherlock.” 

Slipping the shirt from his shoulders, Sherlock scoffs. “We have sex after the full moon all the time.” He throws the shirt over with his coat then brings his hands to his fly, simultaneously toeing off his socks.

Despite himself, John takes a step forward. “This is different.”

“Your restraint is admirable, truly, John,” Sherlock steps out of his trousers without ceremony and sits on the bed, “but unnecessary, I assure you.”

John takes another step. “I’ll hurt you.”

Heat trickles down Sherlock’s spine. “I look forward to it.”

“Sherlock,” John growls. “I’m serious.”

Raising an eyebrow, he leans back on the mattress in nothing but his pants. John steps again. “So am I. We have a safeword.”

Standing two feet away, John looks down at him, hesitating. His hair is an absolute mess, his eyes are nearly all pupil, and a flush is beginning to peek out from the t-shirt collar. The jogging trousers are thin, and John is clearly interested.

“I know how to defend myself, John, even against you,” Sherlock promises silkily. He pushes himself further onto the mattress. “And, in case you’ve forgotten, I was forced to watch hunters try to kill my partner last night, equally unable to reach you.” He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pants and knows, by his sudden stillness, that John is caught. All he needs is a little nudge. “I still remember the feel of his fingers against my skin.” Red flashes across John’s eyes and Sherlock’s breathing stutters. The wolf is so close. “So, if it’s not too much trouble,” he wriggles out of his pants and chucks them to the floor, “I’d like a reminder of to whom I belong.”

It’s the correct choice of words. With a guttural sound, John launches himself onto the bed, trapping Sherlock with his arms and legs. Immediately, Sherlock pulls at his t-shirt, but John refuses to cooperate, instead sinking down onto his elbows to claim Sherlock’s mouth with his own, more of an invasion than a kiss. Sherlock digs his nails into John’s strong back and capitulates, opening under the onslaught. A hand buries itself in his curls and jerks his head to the side, lips ghosting the shell of his ear.

“ _Me_ ,” John rasps. “You belong only to _me_.”

“ _Yes._ ” He tugs more insistently on the t-shirt and John pulls away just long enough to yank it over his head. The early morning sunlight filtering through the windows catches on the heavily scarred skin of John’s left shoulder, the marks of the werewolf mauling that he survived just over a year ago, irreversibly altered, but alive. His abdominals tense as he leans over and seizes Sherlock’s forearms, avoiding his bandaged wrists, and pins them above Sherlock’s head. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock whines. He wants to _touch_.

“Do _not_ move,” John orders, covering his body with his own, filling Sherlock’s senses with the feel of him, the scent of him. “If I think you’re trying to get away from me…” he leaves the threat unspoken, but the edge to his voice is warning enough. Sherlock promptly goes from enthusiastic to near-begging.

Clenching his hands in his own hair, Sherlock tilts his head back as John sets about imbedding his scent into Sherlock’s skin. Fresh from a Change, the smell of the wolf still seeps from his pores, musky and intoxicating. During the two days straddling the night of the full moon, John’s scent is always minutely, but undeniably altered, so that, instead of the usual _comfort_ and _protection_ and _love_ , when Sherlock breathes in John’s skin, his brain lights up with _mine_ and _fight_ and _claim_. The scent is especially heady now as John presses against him, and it takes all of Sherlock’s self-control not to spread his legs and whimper.

John sucks bruises into Sherlock’s throat while smoothing his hands obsessively over Sherlock’s heaving ribs. He buries his nose under Sherlock’s arm and breathes deep while swiping his thumbs over Sherlock’s exposed hip bones. He nips and bites his way down Sherlock’s torso while digging nails into Sherlock’s thighs. Shuffling lower, John noses through Sherlock’s pubic hair, lips grazing his cock.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock breathes, planting his feet and nudging his hips up.

Firm hands squeeze his hamstrings and manipulate his legs until his heels press into John’s back. This isn’t even about pleasure yet, just raw, animal nuzzling and scenting, a tease in the form of ghosting breaths and skimming lips. John draws a line up his cock with his nose and Sherlock’s breath shudders out of his lungs, molten heat sliding down his spine to pool in his pelvis. Retracing the path in reverse with his lips, John breathes hotly on Sherlock’s testicles. Sherlock’s eyes slip closed.

They flash back open again when John takes the tip of his erection into his mouth. In one quick motion, John swallows him down to the root and pulls off again.

“ _Ah!_ John!” Sherlock’s hips twitch up fitfully into the air, seeking wet suction and heat. It’s a charge of electricity straight to his nervous system, leaving a desperate heat just under his skin. He realizes his hands are gripping the sheets.

Sitting up on his knees, John shuffles back a bit, his face and chest flushed. “Turn over.”

He’s magnificently hard in his trousers, the thin material straining against his sizable erection. John is disproportionately, deliciously large for a man of his stature, and Sherlock knows for a fact that he has the werewolf DNA mutation to thank. He once asked John if he’d always been so incredibly well endowed, and, after a great deal of red-faced spluttering, John admitted to some noticeable development in that region after his first Change. One of the many small perks, along with excellent sight, smell and hearing, of the bite.

“For God’s sake, John, take off your trousers.”

A displeased rumble vibrates deep in John’s chest, his lips curling ever so slightly back as he bares his teeth. “Turn. Over,” he repeats, with a quick swat to Sherlock’s hip, a thread of steel in his voice.

Scrambling to obey, Sherlock twists onto his belly, pressing his face into a pillow and spreading his knees. The texture of the duvet feels divine against his leaking erection, and his hips move in shallow, shivery thrusts.

A quiet snarl rips from John’s throat as the bed shifts, and Sherlock freezes as blunt teeth dig into his nape, as an immense erection presses into his tailbone and between his arse cheeks. _God_ , John’s taken off his trousers. They remain suspended, aching, in this position for a long moment, Sherlock’s blood pounding in his cock and under John’s teeth.

At last, satisfied that Sherlock won’t squirm away, John relaxes his jaw, the back of Sherlock’s neck stinging. John inhales deeply and releases the breath with a deep groan, the vibrations shuddering into the base of Sherlock’s skull.

“What do you smell?” He feels rank, in desperate need of a shower after a night of stress and violence, but John, with his wolf instincts just under the surface, evidently doesn’t mind.

Pressing his face into Sherlock’s hair, John inhales again. “I can smell your arousal,” he husks, one hand splaying possessively over Sherlock’s ribs, his cock nudging between Sherlock’s buttocks. “I can smell your lust for me, your fear-tinged thrill when my teeth graze your neck, your excitement when I hold you down.”

Sherlock reaches back to run his fingers through John’s hair, but John catches his tender wrists and presses them to the mattress again, squeezes the bruises painfully. A guttural exclamation gets caught in Sherlock’s throat as he flinches down and away automatically, before arching his back to grind more forcefully against the body holding him down.

“You love it, don’t you,” John rumbles in his ear, “when I’m just a little too rough.”

Wrists throbbing, cock aching, Sherlock mashes his face into the pillow and groans. “I – _Christ_.”

John chuckles darkly and spreads his arms wider, until Sherlock grips the edge of the mattress near the headboard. “Imagine these bandages are rope,” John orders, and Sherlock’s wrists twitch under his grip. “You are tied down, at my mercy, at the _wolf’s_ mercy. Understood?”

Arousal jumps up another notch and his hips squirm, caught between the bed and John’s body. He nods frantically.

“Fantastic.” With that, John goes straight to the point, sliding down Sherlock’s back and settling between his spread knees.

Even without the grip on his wrists, the bruises from the handcuffs throb dully, and it’s easy to imagine the pain is the pressure of rope. Sherlock pictures this in his mind, supporting the images with the sensation.

Warm hands grip Sherlock’s arse cheeks, spreading him open as lips and teeth torture the skin over his coccyx. Sherlock turns his head to suck in more oxygen as he pants.

“Pass me a pillow,” John demands.

Sherlock’s right hand twitches, but is stopped by the rope. “I can’t.”

John’s pleased smile tickles Sherlock’s skin. “Good boy.” He shifts to snatch a pillow by Sherlock’s head, then urges Sherlock to lift his hips, sliding the pillow beneath them. It leaves him vulnerable and exposed, hips twitching. A pleased sound rumbles deep in John’s chest at the sight, and he wastes no time spreading Sherlock’s cheeks again, delving in with lips and tongue.

A high-pitched gasp rakes Sherlock’s throat at the first touch, John’s hot tongue laving from perineum to coccyx. John repeats the motion and Sherlock moans loudly into the bedding, feeling his anus twitch and contract with each slick swipe. Strong thumbs hold Sherlock firmly, almost cruelly, open for John to nuzzle into his centre, John’s panting breaths getting louder with each of Sherlock’s sighs and gasps and groans. His tongue moves firmly, slowly morphing from broad, luxurious laps to focused, exquisite stabs.

Sherlock nearly wails when the strong muscle slips inside. “Oh, God, John.”

A rough growl vibrates against Sherlock’s arse and, twisting, Sherlock looks over his shoulder to find John’s face minutely transformed, his teeth monstrously sharp. On the next swipe, John’s tongue stabs impossibly deep, impossible for a human, and Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed over dazed eyes with the realization: the wolf is pushing through.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he rasps, breathless, as the wolf invades and electrifies him with an eager tongue. It’s exquisitely pleasurable, but Sherlock can’t come like this, not with only a tongue in his arse and a too-soft pillow under his cock. Instead, the flame of his arousal is stoked and fanned into an inferno. He can feel his eyes rolling back, his mouth hanging open as it doesn’t stop, the tongue teasing his rim with circling flicks, stretching him wide with deep thrusts.

When John finally pauses, Sherlock presses his hot face into the pillow, unsure if the dampness is from sweat or tears.

“Please what?” John wonders, his voice scratchy and wolf-deep.

It’s at that moment that Sherlock realizes he is whispering unconsciously, a steady stream of “please, please, please,” under his breath. He swallows around a dry throat, cock aching and leaking into the pillow, arse on fire, and attempts to articulate the consuming need tearing through him. “John. Please. I need more. I can’t…like this.”

Pressing his face against Sherlock’s arse again, John lips at his twitching opening. “Can’t what?”

The sound Sherlock makes sounds like he’s being tortured. “Orgasm! I can’t achieve orgasm with just this. Please, it’s exquisite, amazing, but I need to more.”

“I’m not trying to make you come,” John murmurs between flicking tastes. “This, this is how the wolf checks for sex hormones, for sexual receptiveness.”

Biting his lip, Sherlock wriggles his hips. “I am very –” he chokes as John nips where thigh meets buttock. “ _Very_ receptive, I promise you.”

John hums. “No, not yet. You’re not quite ready yet.” He delivers a sharper bite and Sherlock yelps. “Up. On your hands and knees.”

It takes a moment for Sherlock’s shaky, pleasure-weak muscles to comply, but he manages it, tucking his knees under him and raising onto his elbow, placing him into the classic canine mating position. “I’m ready, John,” Sherlock insists, and receives sharp claws digging into his hips as a response.

That strong, agile tongue goes back to work, and this time Sherlock knows moisture is slipping out from between his clenched eyelids. His cock and balls hang heavy and full between his spread legs, pre-ejaculate glistening and dripping from his exposed glans. It’s _so_ tempting to reach down and touch himself, but the bandages are rope, he can’t move his hands. Head dangling between shaking arms, Sherlock groans and cries out with each suck and swipe and thrust, his pelvis feeling liquid and full, his arse grasping for John’s cock. He arches his back and increases the spread of his legs to the point of pain, blatantly asking for more, more of John’s tongue laving hot and wet over his sensitive rim, more of John’s body inside of him, John’s fingers, John’s cock. _Just more_.

By the time John stops again, Sherlock is lightheaded and dazed, lost on the sea of sensation. When John pulls away and gets off the bed, an unhappy mewling sound slips from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Just – getting the slick,” John reassures him roughly, haltingly, like the simple words take incredible effort. He moves to the bedside table, his impressive erection jutting out obscenely in front of him, too heavy to arc towards his stomach, and Sherlock’s mouth waters. He collapses onto the bed as John retrieves the bottle of lube they keep in the drawer, watching below heavy eyelids the lines and contours of John’s body as his lover quickly returns to the bed. John starts with two fingers immediately, slipping easily into Sherlock’s loosened passage. He quickly inserts a third and Sherlock pushes back eagerly, groaning at the feel of John’s knuckles against his rim. John’s keeps his fingers perfectly straight, careful not to brush against Sherlock’s prostate, for which Sherlock both curses and thanks him, knowing he wouldn’t last under that kind of stimulation.

Once John can comfortably thrust with four fingers into Sherlock’s body, he removes his hand. Sherlock lies limp and shivering as John slicks himself up, using the same hand that was inside Sherlock, then shuffles forward to mount him. One hand braces on the bed by Sherlock’s waist, the other guides his cock to Sherlock’s entrance, which flares and clenches under John’s teasing slides and brushes. A desperate whine escapes Sherlock’s constricted throat, and he’s too far gone to be embarrassed, arching his back to take in the head. John makes a pleased growling sound and lowers his hips, slowly pushing his wide erection down into Sherlock’s body.

At first, the sudden girth is shocking, overwhelming, and Sherlock’s body tenses and flinches away automatically. With a snarl, John leans over him to press his teeth warningly against Sherlock’s nape, though his hips still, waiting until Sherlock relaxes and opens before pushing onward. When John is fully inside, filling up Sherlock’s every hidden crevice, they both groan, Sherlock high and breathless, John rough and satisfied. Though intellectually Sherlock knows that John is big, the sensation is a surprise, every time, and he takes a moment to adjust, hands clenching the sheets.  

With a gentle thrust, John tests Sherlock’s readiness, nibbling at his nape as pleasure blooms deep inside. “ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock gasps, “Good,” so John does it again, and again, then again with more force, each thrust nudging his cock against Sherlock’s sensitive insides, brushing against his prostate. The pleasure spikes and Sherlock cries out, squirming under John’s solid weight.

John seems past words, nothing but aggressive, animal sounds emerging as he manhandles Sherlock onto his knees again, fucking him hard. Sherlock’s cries spur him on, and the pleasure at the base of Sherlock’s spine and in his pelvis collects and expands, John’s cock touching everywhere inside of him, thudding against his prostate with each thrust. Sharp teeth drag wetly over Sherlock’s shoulder and neck and Sherlock can feel claws digging into his skin where John grips his hip.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Sherlock wheezes, tossing his head back and bracing hard against the poundings. They’re jostling too much for John to properly latch onto his neck, lips and teeth and tongue finding his skin with glancing contact. Sherlock feels himself tightening and cries out, his testicles drawing up close to his body, his cock throbbing.

John snarls in his ear and fucks him harder, and Sherlock is thrown violently over the edge. With a choked, sobbing wail, Sherlock clenches with his orgasm, his anus contracting and spasming around John’s thick cock, his prick twitching in the air, untouched, between his legs, ejaculate striping his stomach, chest and the sheets. “Oh, God, oh, God.”

Before he’s even completely finished, John pulls out and flips Sherlock onto his back in one dizzying motion, then slips back inside Sherlock’s still clenching arse. Lacking the breath to scream, Sherlock grabs onto John’s shoulders, squeezing hard and throwing his head back as John begins to move again. His legs wrap automatically around John’s waist, thighs tensing with each pain-tinged thrust. He’s quickly becoming oversensitive, but John’s eyes have a red tint to them, and his lips are pulled back aggressively. The sight sends a shudder, like an earthquake, through Sherlock’s body.

Primal and heady with lust and the wolf, John’s scent submerges Sherlock’s senses, prompting Sherlock to pull John closer, until their writhing torsos meet. There is a wild light in John’s eyes as he presses his face to Sherlock’s shoulder, sucking and nipping at enflamed skin. Wrapping his arms around John’s strong back, Sherlock hugs his lover closer as the shallow thrusts pick up speed again. His cock, never completely softened, begins to fill again, and a shocked sound gets trapped in Sherlock’s throat as pleasure surges. John must sense it, because he makes a rough, ecstatic sound, and the tempo of his hips slapping against Sherlock’s arse becomes manic. Something is changing, his cock feels wider somehow, at the base, and Sherlock’s eyes widen in realization.

“ _John_ ,” he gasps, shocked, feeling the wolf knot nudging against his anus.

The quiet growling stops along with John’s hips. With a thick swallow, John lifts his head, clearly fighting for lucidity. “It’s your scent – I can’t – it’s an automatic response – the wolf,” he manages. He takes a deep breath. “Alright?”

This has never happened before, not even during their usual post-werewolf sex, and Sherlock wonders what the trigger was, if it was the recent violence or the stress of Sherlock’s imprisonment. The thought that John is so strongly affected by him, enough so that he cannot suppress the wolf’s behaviour, is incredibly arousing, even as the idea of John’s already thick cock getting any larger is mildly intimidating.

Panting above him, John is watching him for his reaction, and Sherlock smiles reassuringly. He tips his head back, bearing his neck. “More than alright,” he promises, and the wolf haze clouds John’s eyes again.

Ducking down, John gently encases Sherlock’s windpipe with his teeth in a show of dominance, of control, and Sherlock wheezes, not due to the pressure, but rather due to the wave of pleasure that sweeps over his body. To be so blatantly desired, coveted like this, is intoxicating. Twisting his head, John adjusts to bite down on his trapezius next, his hips kicking forward in a rapid staccato. Instantly, Sherlock is once again overwhelmed with sensation, his knees tensing around John’s hips, his cock rubbing against John’s stomach. No longer holding back, John fucks him roughly, nearly violently, and Sherlock keens, feeling the engorged knot easing its way further inside with each forward press. His prostate feels bruised, and yet with each pounding he wants more, like scratching at a bug bite that is already raw.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John grinds out, and forces his way past the stretched ring of muscle with a firm push.

Mouth stretching wide, Sherlock’s scream gets caught in his constricted throat, eyes rolling back and completely silent as he comes a second time, John’s cock crushing his prostate. It feels like he’s suffocating with pleasure-pain, his entire frame tense to snapping as he jerks and shudders in the cage of John’s arms, his nails dragging red bloody scratches down John’s back.

With a cry that is nearly a howl, John tenses, his hips jammed hard against Sherlock’s arse, his cock twitching as he comes deep in Sherlock’s body. Diaphragm suddenly relaxing, Sherlock sucks in a deep breath, and as John’s scent fills his head, he goes instantly limp with satisfaction and pleasure. With a final snarl, John’s hips jerk again, as a new pulse ripples inside Sherlock, and Sherlock nuzzles into John’s neck, smiling.

It takes several minutes before the knot deflates enough for John to pull out, muscles shaking as he struggles not to collapse on Sherlock. Making a face at the liquid rush following John’s cock, Sherlock pulls John down beside him on the bed, body aching and wrung out, wanting nothing more than to stroke and nuzzle every inch of John’s beautiful, scarred skin.

With a soft sound of satisfaction, John pulls Sherlock against his chest and Sherlock gazes up at him. The wolf has disappeared entirely from John’s features, his eyes a familiar ocean blue beneath lowered eyelids, his strong jaw relaxed, his harmless human teeth partially visible between parted lips. A surge of affection bursts in Sherlock’s chest, so strong it feels like his heart is exploding, and he gasps, breath shaky, as he presses his lips to John’s scarred shoulder. With a hum that vibrates through his chest, John buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair, smoothing a hand down Sherlock’s spine.

“Alright?” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse. “That was, well, violent, frankly. I’m sorry.”

“It was perfect,” he assures, closing his eyes. His chest feels tight. He lifts his head to press a kiss to John’s lips, who immediately seizes his head, pulling him closer. When they break apart, they’re both breathing heavily. “If they’d killed you…” Sherlock can’t continue, choked by horror. If John had been killed, with Sherlock chained, watching, useless… Would the hunters have left him there and fled? Would they have seen Sherlock’s rage and been too fearful to release him? Shackled and caged with John’s corpse, left until Mycroft came looking for him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock?”

Pressing his face to John’s neck, Sherlock struggles to get a hold of himself. Something is different, something is wrong. He’s never this emotional after sex. “What’s happening?”

John tenses, a breath punching out of his chest.

“John?”

A warm hand cradles the back of Sherlock’s head, another rubbing soothingly up and down his back. A low, sympathetic growling sound emanates from John’s chest, almost like a big feline’s purring. “I think I need to apologize.”

Sherlock shifts and John’s arms tighten. “I already said it was more than fine –”

“Not for the sex,” John interrupts. “Though that was a bit not good.”

“What then?” Sherlock sighs, comfort suffusing him as John’s heart beats against his chest, their pulses synching up. His brow furrows as he realizes their hearts are beating at exactly the same tempo. That is…abnormal.

“I think,” John ventures, then clears his throat. “I think, possibly, we just pair bonded.”

Sherlock shifts again and this time John allows him to pull back, lifting himself up so he can stare down at John. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, you already know I love you, and I think, what with…the knot,” John flushes, squirming under Sherlock’s gaze, “and, and the way the wolf…well. Think of it this way, we were already partners in every sense of the word, and now the wolf is on the same page.”

After staring for another moment, Sherlock flops down on his back beside John, his mind momentarily stunned into silence. “So we’re…mated?”

John makes a horribly awkward choking noise, fidgeting, and the affection in Sherlock’s chest blooms wider, filling up his throat. “Wolves don’t actually mate for life, despite what people think.”

“But we’re mated,” Sherlock clarifies, turning his head to watch John’s mouth work.

Still endearingly flushed, John admits, “Yes.”

“What does that entail?”

“I don’t really know. But…I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about the wolf attacking you. And…your scent…”

He raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“There are certain instincts…possessiveness, aggression… Of course, I’ve no claim on anything except what you give me,” John quickly reassures. “And I am totally capable of keeping the wolf in check.”

Nodding, Sherlock pretends to consider, watching out of the corner of his eye as John bites his lip and makes aborted attempts to reach over. The corner of Sherlock’s lips twitch up, the warmth in his chest and belly impossible to contain. With a broad smile he rolls over again, flopping half on top of John, who encircles him with his arms automatically.

“Well, werewolves and humans do,” Sherlock declares.

“Do what?”

“Mate for life. I would know, seeing as I’m in such a relationship.” Under him, John freezes and then immediately relaxes with a sigh, a breathless chuckle rushing through Sherlock’s hair.

“Sherlock Holmes mated to a werewolf,” he mutters, wry. “Sounds about right.”

“Not just any werewolf,” Sherlock corrects. “My standards are rather high.”

For a moment, John lies still, stunned. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Lifting his chin, Sherlock nips John’s ear, then his jaw and finally presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Do shut up.”

John smiles widely, smugly, a twinkle of humour in his eyes. “Make me.”

With an aggrieved groan, Sherlock straddles him to roughly claim his mate’s lips with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr!](http://notesoflore.tumblr.com/)


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